by Alam, Donna
I know told James I wouldn’t be doing the job much longer, but yesterday I’d also gotten a call from James’s property agent, and I nearly fainted at some of the prices he quoted.
But I won’t be deterred, which brings in my third income stream.
Not only have Olivia and Beckett decided to hold a wedding blessing for their family and friends to attend next month, but they’ve also asked me to arrange it.
Well, asked might be stretching the truth a bit. I might’ve begged Olivia, and Beckett seems quite happy to go along with what Olivia wants.
Happy wife, happy life, right?
As they snuck off for a quickie ceremony in New York earlier this year, while she was supposedly there visiting her ill granny, the big fibber, they now want to do it all again. Or something.
And on the back of my speed dating success, discounting my drunken antics, Ols has very graciously allowed me to arrange the event for her. I didn’t even have to plead that much. Better still, I’m getting paid! And I’m beyond excited. I’ve always enjoyed the styling of events. It’s not strictly part of my job as a marketing manager but as I’ve always worked for smaller companies since leaving university, start-ups mainly, my job has often extended to such things as preparing for trade shows and dinners, meet and greet opportunities, speed dating, and now wedding ceremonies! Well, wedding parties. I believe Olivia has a celebrant in mind for the actual vow thing. In fact, I’m not entirely sure what vows they’ll be undertaking, given they’re already married.
Some would say it seems a little premature for them to be renewing their commitment to each other. But me? I say cha-ching!
‘Well, she isn’t the only one smiling like someone who needs a time-out in the loony bin. Oi! Are you even listening?’
‘I was just thinking,’ I mutter, waving my hand as though this somehow proves it. ‘About the wedding.’
‘And this?’ Her gaze drops to my desk as she stares meaningfully at my phone.
Oh, the text.
Good morning, beautiful.
I must remember to reply.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ My brisk response supports no nonsense, even if my head is full of the stuff.
‘Oh, I think you do. How many times has lover boy text this morning?’ she purrs playfully.
‘So he texts. Big deal. He’s just checking in.’
‘That answer wasn’t a number. Not last time I was in a classroom, anyway.’
‘Heth, bugger off and mind your own business.’
‘If I’d minded my own business, you wouldn’t be smiling at your phone because he wouldn’t be calling because you, no doubt, would have given him the cold shoulder last time you—’
‘Who needs E-Volve?’ I say, speaking over her because I don’t need to hear the end of that. ‘Who needs romance dating apps when you’re matchmaking, eh?’
‘I can’t help it that I’m good.’
‘You also can’t help being a little crazy.’ Leaning forward, I tap my index fingers between her brows. ‘Maybe Aunt Polly dropped you on the head when you were a baby.’
‘By that logic, maybe your mum dropped you on your face.’
‘Harsh, Heth. Harsh.’
‘Says the girl who just called me stupid.’
‘You’re not stupid. I know because your mother had you tested.’ Her gaze narrows, but she knows I’m only playing even if, as a child, she was tested for all kinds of things. But maybe she doesn’t realise I’m kidding as her mouth forms an unhappy moue.
‘I have ADHD. I’m not stupid.’
‘Heth, of course you’re not stupid! If it’s any consolation, I totally am at the minute. And I seem to have borrowed the attention deficit bit from you. I can barely concentrate.’
‘No, it doesn’t help actually.’ Her response appears to be the beginning of a snit.
‘Oh, come on. Please don’t get grumpy. You know you’re a proper smarty-pants, so you don’t need me to tell you. But clever or not, you’re wrong about . . . about what you’re talking about. There’s no romance between him and me. Also, never refer to him as my lover again. This isn’t a soft porn film.’
He’s not my lover, even if the sex is great. There’s no love between us, even if he keeps saying he wants to look after me. Because he’s a good human who wants the best for his child. But back to my original point, I’d be mad—I’d be the stupid one, the crazy one—to read too much into this.
Because we’re unsuited on so many levels.
‘Is he Voldemort now? He who shall not be named?’ she utters in a deep tone. When I open my mouth to answer, she just talks over me. ‘So, according to you, he sends you multiple daily dick pics and not sappy love notes?’
‘What?’ My gaze darts to the kitchen to where Jorge is probably stuffing his face with chocolate biscuits. It’s not even eleven o’clock, and that’s his third trip. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And keep your voice down.’
‘Why? Give it a couple of months and people will know a certain someone hasn’t just been sending you cock shots, but that he’s also been giving you shots from his cock.’ She takes the opportunity of an empty office to mime some kind of unpleasant groin explosion.
‘Just stop.’ The note of pleading in my tone earns me a frown. ‘I just. I just don’t want people judging me, all right?’
‘That sounds suspiciously like you’re not planning on telling anyone, which is ridiculous because you’re going to look pregnant soon, on account of the fact that you are pregnant. And then a few months later, you’re going to have a baby. And that you won’t be able to explain away. Babies aren’t a cool accessory you pick up in a sale.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ I sort of hiss. ‘I’m the one whose insides become their outsides twice a day because of the parasitic little thing.’
Heather’s face falls, and I immediately feel guilty—for her and for the candy-sized baby I’m carrying. I resist the urge to cover my flat stomach with my hand as though to ease my harsh words.
‘Sorry.’ I’m not sure if my apology was for Heather or for baby Haribo. Not that it matters as neither party acknowledges it. ‘Stop looking at me like that. It’s not like it can hear.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because it’s too early. It doesn’t have limbs yet, let alone ears.’ It’s been a while since I sat in a biology class, but I seem to remember that’s probably the case. Probably. I really need to borrow those books. ‘I know I probably sound like a bitch, but I don’t mean to. But right now, I just feel like I’m a bloody host. I vomit on demand, smells are starting to make me feel ill, and just this morning, when I woke up, I was desperate to eat baked beans for breakfast.’
‘But you hate baked beans.’
‘I know!’ I cry, throwing my hands up in the air. ‘They’re illuminous orange and disgusting, yet I ate them cold. Out of a can. With a slice of white bread slathered in butter. And I hated every mouthful I chewed, yet every mouthful seemed to settle something inside me.’
‘Can I have your Michael Kors skirt?’
‘What?’
‘Clearly, it’s going to be out of fashion before you fit back into it. Butter, white bread, pregnancy.’
‘If you’re trying to make me cry, you’re too late. I already did that when I made a floor cloth of it after I caught it in the hinge of a dog door.’
‘The night of conception.’ She waggles her eyebrows like a cartoon villain. ‘You’ll have to call it Michael, or Michela, in honour.’
‘We’re not talking about this. And I am going to tell people.’ I reach out and begin to straighten the pens and pencils in my For Fox Sakes mug. ‘I told Mum already.’
‘What?’
‘I assumed you already knew.’ I thought Aunt Lou would be the first person she’d called.
‘So now I officially know, right? When Mum corners me sometime later today, or whenever, I don’t have to plead ignorance.’
‘Fine. But the barest of details
. I didn’t tell Mum James is loaded.’ Or older. Or that I’m trying very hard not to fall for him.
‘Did you tell her he’s drop-dead gorgeous?’
‘No.’
‘Hung like a horse?’
‘Eww. What kind of person discusses this stuff with their mother?’
‘Me—not voluntarily, though.’
‘Poor Heth. But it could be worse. Instead of free love, your parents could be practicing free hate. Like my lot.’
‘When are you going to tell Olivia?’
‘At twelve weeks. I’ll tell everyone who needs to know then. Twelve weeks seem to be the sweet spot for these things. And please don’t mention it to her before then.’ Pulling out an E-Volve branded pencil, I brandish it in her direction.
‘Jeez, okay. You know I won’t. But you must admit, it’s better that I told him when I did.’ She taps the back of my phone. ‘Because when he sends you . . . whatever it is he sends you,’ in response to me rolling my eyes, her voice becomes a little more forceful, ‘you actually smile.’
‘I smile other times,’ I retort with another fake smile.
‘I think I’d prefer it if you did have wind.’
28
James
‘Another drink?’
We’re at Mortcombs again but inside this time. It’s too cold and wet today to sit out.
‘Sure.’ I barely glance up at Griffin, my gaze falling to my phone again, having just enquired what Miranda’s plans are for the evening. Since the ultrasound, I’m happy to say I see her most days, though it’s during the night more often than during the day, not that I’m complaining. But I have made voluble my complaints with regards to her pet-sitting position.
‘Are you willing her to answer?’ I ignore Beckett’s tone. We haven’t spoken of Miranda since the day I called and asked about her.
‘Who?’ Griff is like a shark sensing blood in the water. ‘Who are you fucking? Is it that model?’
‘Isn’t it always a model?’ Beckett interjects in that infuriating drawl. Though I’ll credit him as not supplying Griff with further ammunition. Just as he kept Olivia away from out little group, I’ll do the same with Miranda.
Perhaps we’re just greedy and keeping them to ourselves.
‘What was her name again?’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ I reply evenly.
‘Yeah, you do. You were in the social section of one of the local rags—one of the newspapers.’
‘Why, Griffin. I never pegged you as a devotee of the social sections. How quaint.’
‘Get fucked, you,’ he retorts, sending Beckett a derisive grin. Because somehow, quaint sounded more like deplorable. ‘I’m not looking to make connections with anyone but the gorgeous and almost divorced.’
‘A public service, no doubt. You’re like the human version one of those wide-mouthed whales, sucking up the flotsam and jetsam of the world.’
‘Thank you, Beckett. But I don’t suck clients. Often,’ he adds with that grin again. ‘But come on.’ He turns his attention back to me. ‘What was her name again? I want to say it was a name that sounded like an animal.’
‘She should be right up your alley, then.’ Neither of us pays Beckett’s muttering any attention as he picks up his broadsheet newspaper, opening it with an annoyed flourish. Or perhaps an annoying flourish.
‘You’re the only animal I know.’ My phone vibrates with a text. He means Giselle, of course. I wonder how she’s still window-shopping in anticipation of her divorce settlement? I should give her a call. She might be interested in a preshow viewing of the Kenyan photorealism showing I have coming up. Or maybe I won’t call her at all. Last time I tried to sell her something, she roped me into going to an event, and a more boring night I’ve never had.
Just on my way out of the office for an hour. Same place as last night. Will call you soon x
Miranda. She’s as graceful as any gazelle and has the same attractive doe-like gaze, but her temperament is closer to that of a donkey. The woman is as gorgeous as she is both infuriatingly independent and mulishly determined to continue refusing my help. But I stay the course and continue to chip away at her walls. It’s hardly surprising she’s built them so high given her experiences and role models. But I persevere, quite happily usually, though it is tiresome never quite knowing whether I’ll be sleeping in my own bed or some stranger’s bed from day to day.
It’s a little like backpacking all over again.
But I have a plan. It’s not a very nice one, but sometimes good medicine tastes bitter. And there’s usually something nicer that follows to take away the taste. I certainly intend there to be so. But she can’t continue like this—she needs to set down some roots. According to the assemblage of literature I’ve collected, at some point during the last few weeks of her pregnancy, she’ll slave to the biological need to nest in preparation for the arrival of the baby. I know she’s not keen on reading up on her pregnancy, referring to the books as horror stories, but perhaps she ought to. Because then, she might realise she doesn’t have a nest to bloody nest in!
If I had to title a show featuring my life, currently the most apt would be Sex in the Suburbs. We’ve screwed in a cottage in Camden, a villa in Maida Vale, and over a sofa in South Kensington. We’ve had sex with a poodle staring, had a Bichon bark and leave the room in a cloud of disgust, and I’ve even fought off a Labrador when it tried to hump me as I humped the lovely Miranda. And quite frankly, I’m done.
Except it looks like tonight, I’ll be back to a tiny flat in Marylebone with two rabbits the size of overgrown corgis.
Perhaps I’ve judged Beckett too harshly for his own machinations when I have some of my own.
The waiter arrives, drinks are ordered, and we each turn to our respective thoughts for a while.
‘“There exists”,’ Griffin begins, in his best orator’s voice, ‘“for everyone a sentence that has the power to destroy you”.’
‘Are you waiting for a round of applause?’ I ask. ‘Or perhaps the thump of a gavel and shouts of or-der?’ It sounded like a pronouncement a barrister might make, though if I hadn’t seen him in his wig and gown myself, I probably would believe he was a criminal before I would a criminal barrister.
‘No. I just read it in this article,’ he replies equably, tapping the arts section he appears to have pilfered from Beckett’s newspaper. ‘Do you think that’s true?’
‘Who said it?’
‘I did,’ Griff retorts idiotically.
‘Philip K. Dick, I believe.’ Beckett’s reply comes from behind his newspaper.
‘Which sentence is it for you?’
‘I don’t know. Talisker has gone out of business?’
‘Good one. Same as the Guinness factory has burned down.’
‘Ass, I don’t drink Guinness, so that wouldn’t be an issue. What about you?’ I ask, turning the question back to him.
‘Your brother was better in bed.’
‘That’s not soul destroying. It might true—’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Or not nice, but it’s hardly the kind of thing that would make you want to lie down and never get back up again.’
‘You don’t know how much I hate him. But that would never happen because his would be is it in yet. He’s probably heard that one already.’
‘It’s not the size of the boat but the motion in—’
‘Yeah, okay, tripod.’
What can I say? Rugby games and communal changing rooms don’t make for secrets.
‘But seriously, mine would be something like the defendant is hereby sentenced to a maximum term of . . . ’ He visibly shudders. ‘Grim places, prison. I think I’d rather be hung.’
‘Hanged.’ I know what’s coming next before it even does.
‘I know what I meant. And if I’m going to prison, I want to be the big guy on top.’
‘Prison isn’t meant to be holiday camp,’ Beckett retorts, ignoring the rest. The paper lowe
rs like a flag. He then folds it in a crisp and concise motion. ‘I never loved you.’
‘Whoa. That took a dark turn.’ Griff frowns discomforted, but Beckett’s expression doesn’t flicker.
‘Dark was my mother’s maiden name. Or perhaps it should’ve been. Anyway, she’s under the ground, and I’m on top of it.’
I never met Beckett’s parents, but I know he didn’t have the best of childhoods. It seems I underestimated just how awful it was.
‘Well, if we’re baring our souls here’—Griff throws back a mouthful of beer—‘the baby’s yours would be right up there.’ He shivers, whether feigned or real, I can’t be sure. ‘So apart from the whisky company going bust, what about you?’
You’re not the one.
But I won’t voice either because they aren’t factual. The truth isn’t in what Miranda says but rather in what she doesn’t say. It’s in her behaviour. The way she shields herself from me, and in the way she thinks she must protect herself and our child against her heart being broken. It’s in the way she responds to my touch, and in her soft smiles in the sunshine and her whispered confessions in the dark. She might not know it yet, but she loves me. I see it. I feel it. I know it. And I’ll wait for the truth to dawn on her.
Meanwhile, I’m not baring my soul to these fuckers. But I will share my news, sort of anonymously. I could argue sharing our news brings Miranda into focus. Telling my news keeps her protected somewhat.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet while the pair look on.
‘He’s going to demonstrate it for us.’ Griff’s hand taps the table in quick succession, clearly enamoured by his own mirth. ‘The thing that frightens him the most? It’s your round.’
I pull the ultrasound image from my wallet carefully, smoothing the crease between my fingers. Griff’s laughter stops immediately as though a television program switched off midsentence. I place the shiny paper on the table and run my finger over the edges, careful not to make it look any more careworn than it currently is. Both men lean forward in their chairs, staring down at the thing, apparently mute with shock. Or perhaps sensible enough to keep their opinions to themselves. I watch their reactions, rather than look at it again, familiar with what I’ll see. A black background. The grey ghostly arc. The tiny jellybean smudge that is my child.
